


the morning after

by Accidie



Series: the rest of their days [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: AU where dutch tries to be a good person, Angst, Arthur Morgan Has Low Self-Esteem, Depressed Arthur Morgan, Gen, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22322038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accidie/pseuds/Accidie
Summary: Arthur survives his suicide attempt. The days after are tough on them all.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan & Orville Swanson, John Marston & Arthur Morgan
Series: the rest of their days [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1606714
Comments: 33
Kudos: 244





	1. Chapter 1

Everything feels still in the morning. The girls huddled together, whispering among each other with voices so low that they hardly can be distinguished from the overall noise of nature around them. Bill, Javier and Sean had left the camp in the early hours of the day, desperately searching for jobs, anything to get away from the suffocating silence. John prowled around the camp, scowling every time someone even dared to glance at him.   
  
Arthur had made it through the night. There were moments during the night where it didn’t seem so sure, and the danger was far from over. Charles had seen men succumb to infections from mere flesh wounds, dying in fever days after they got nicked. But the greatest danger to his survival was, of course, himself. 

Arthur’s guns were now stored in Dutch’s tent, as were his knives, and all his herbs, everything that they could imagine him hurting himself with locked away in the chest underneath Dutch’s bed. It’s pointless, he thought. Arthur wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, he thinks, because Charles knows Arthur, they have barely spent a year together and still he prides himself with understanding how Arthur works, that the next time he wants to die he won’t slit his wrists, he won’t shoot himself. It feels far more likely that he will goad some lawman into killing him, just like so many other tired men before him. 

He feels something fester in him, guilt perhaps, _because he knows Arthur_ , should have seen this coming, he had spent more time with Arthur the last week than anyone else, and that isn’t much to begin with. For just how long had Arthur felt that his life didn’t matter? 

Another feeling resurfaces, and this time is anger. Dutch and Hosea, they should have noticed something was wrong, they had known the man for over 20 years, Arthur had run their errands since he was a teen, and for what? What had he received in return? A five-thousand-dollar bounty on his head, an occasional pat on the back for a job well done, and two vertical cuts stretching from just above his elbow to his wrist. 

Arthur deserves better, he thinks, better than a gang which relies on him so much and never seems to give anything in return. 

In the corner of his eyes he spots Kieran, nervy as always, brushing Arthur’s white Arabian. The only one in camp working, and as always doing so with a timid way, like he doesn’t want to be seen at all, even more so now as if he thinks that the mere sight of him working when Arthur’s hurt would cause offence. 

Charles doesn’t hold too much love for the former O'driscoll. But just like Sean, just like Bill and Javier he can’t stand a moment more in the camp, not when there was work to be done. 

“Kieran,” he calls out, and the man startles in a way that’s almost comical. “Have you hunted before?” 

Arthur drifts in and out from sleep for almost two days before regaining full consciousness, the blood loss and the morphine they’d given him when stitching him up keeping him in an almost vegetate state. John isn’t here when Arthur wakes up, but he knows that whatever happened after must have been bad. Hosea exits in tears, quickly followed by Dutch, who looks like he just as well might cry himself. 

He tries not to listen in to their conversation as he goes to grab a bowl of stew, but his curiosity gets the best of him. He’d been worried, had barely slept at all, his thoughts keeping him awake, not to mention Jack who tossed and turned in his bedroll and had woken up numerous times in the night crying like a baby. “-looked so disappointed, Hosea,” he hears Dutch say, his voice breaking in the middle. 

The hell did they think? John wonders. That Arthur would be happy to wake up? 

“Marston!”, Pearson calls out, and he curses himself when Hosea and Dutch look in his direction before walking away, no doubt to a more private spot. 

“Can you give this to Mr.Morgan?” Pearson asks. He sees the dark bags underneath Pearson's eyes. It seems like no one have had the time to get some rest. “It’s a uh, special stew. Ginger. Good for nausea. From the morphine.”   
  
Pearson sounds nervous and like he wants to say something more, and John is grateful that Pearson doesn’t. 

He should refuse, ask someone else to fetch Morgan some fuckin’ food because he really doesn’t want to see him, hell, a part of him rather would’ve stayed in the wildness getting chewed on by wolves than speak to his brother at this moment. Perhaps he should send someone of the women. 

But if Hosea and Dutch seemed to cry at the mere sight of Arthur in that bed, he knew that that would be a bad idea, someone like Mary-Beth would bursts into tears like waterfall. 

  
“Sure,” he says. “I’ll give it to him.” 

He starts to regret saying yes as soon as he turns around 

With every step towards Arthur’s wagon he can feel himself growing angry. 

Who the fuck did Arthur think he was? Like they haven’t had enough bodies to bury already, as if Hosea, frail as he was, could handle any more losses. With all the turmoil and the shit that had happened the last few months they needed Arthur more than ever. He needed Arthur, _his brother._

Selfish goddamn bastard. 

He almost spills out the stew when he bumps into Reverend Swanson who was just leaving Arthur’s closed off wagon.   
“Mr. Marston”, he says in that jittery way of his. 

“Reverend.” 

He tries to bypass him, but Swanson steps to the side, blocking his path again.   
“Mr. Marston, I don’t think- I don’t think now is a good time to visit him.” 

He ignores him completely, and with perhaps a bit more force than necessarily squeezes past the Reverend, who stumbles to the side. 

Finally standing in front of his brother after two whole days of wondering and worrying, he regrets not sending someone like Tilly or Karen. Hell, he could have given the bowl to Swanson, Arthur always was soft on that man. 

Arthur is pale, that’s the first thought that hits him. Second, Arthur looks like he has lost weight, he sees that now when Arthur isn’t wearing all those layers of clothes he usually wore. His arms are covered completely in bandages, some red spots on them already. The circles under his eyes almost looking like bruises. He looks tired to his core, and barely reacts to John’s entrance. 

How long had he been thinking about doing this? Had he thought about it, even those nights when he laughed and played dominoes with Hosea? Was this something he had considered even before everything went to shit in Blackwater? 

What a piece of crap he was for not trusting them with this, for making them all feel like shit. 

“Pearson made stew.” he grits out. 

“Ain’t hungry,” Arthur mutters. His eyes puffy, focused on the photographs on the wall next to him. 

John drops, no, _slams_ the bowl of stew to the ground. “Fuck you Morgan,” he says. “You won’t even eat now, huh? Is that how you’re gonna kill yourself this time?”   
  
“I ain’t fucking hungry Marston,” Arthur snaps. “The hell is wrong with you? Wasting good food like that?”   
  
“The hell is wrong with _you_? You fucking-”   
  
“Just get the hell out of here-”   
  
“-Bastard! If it wasn’t for-”   
“-I ain’t in the mood for your yapping-”   
“-the fact that you look like you’re about to drop dead any minute I would fucking beat the shit out of you you goddamn _traitor_.” 

Arthur snaps shut, falling silent but still not even looking at him. 

“All the shit you gave me for leaving, and now you try to leave yourself?” John snarls, “You think we don’t have enough shit to worry about right now than you dying on us?” It’s cruel, he knows that, but he cannot suppress his anger. “You think Jack hasn't enough nightmares as it is without him thinking about you in that bed?”   
  
This catches Arthur's attention for real, and for the first time that night he meets Johns eyes. “Jack?” he says, voice hoarse.   
“Jack was the one who found you”, John spits out, he doesn’t know why he says it, why it feels so important for him, perhaps it’s hurt Arthur, revenge for all the hours he spent restless and close to tears wondering if Arthur would make it through the night or not, if his wounds would heal. For the time he spent watching Jack trash in his sleep in their bedroll. 

He immediately regrets it when he sees Arthur's face, even more grim that it was before. For a moment it looks like he wants to say something, but instead he just hears an intake of breath, and then Arthur shuts his eyes. 

John does what he does best. Leaves. 


	2. Chapter 2

He never was good at living, and he sure didn’t seem good at dying either. He can’t hide the disappointment he feels when he wakes up, can’t hide the absolute shame, not from Hosea, not from Dutch. Of course the ones he’d known for the longest were the ones that just had to be there to witness him realize his failure. 

“How are you feeling, son?” Hosea asks.   
He can’t stop himself. “Like I should have chosen the bullet.” he replies. 

He doesn’t remember what happens after, only that Hosea and Dutch leaves in tears. 

He isn’t good at living, not good at dying. 

He’s good at hurting people, though. That seems to be the only thing he’s good at nowadays. 

\- 

John visits him to curse him out, but he’s the only one. Everyone avoids his wagon-turned-tent like the plague.   
He’s thankful for that. Doesn’t know if he’d ever be able to meet anyone's eyes again.   
  
No one really visits him, but he’s never entirely alone.   
He knows Grimshaw keeps watch over him during the night. Swanson keeps him company throughout the days. He cleans his wounds and gives him morphine when the throbbing in his arms becomes too much. It dulls everything, and the past days had given him another understanding of just why someone would want to inject.   
Judging by the increasing shakiness of the Reverends hands it must have been at least a couple of days since he last used. He knows it must be hard for the man, aware of the anxiety and want in Swanson’s eyes when seeing the syringe resting on his side table. 

Poor bastard. 

The guilt feels like lead in his stomach and he wonders just how many lives he would ruin until God or whatever higher power that was at play finally would allow him to die. For what feels like the thousand time that week, he regrets not choosing the bullet, cursing himself for being so vain that he couldn’t shoot himself in the head because he wanted his body to look at least somewhat presentable. He couldn’t bear the thought of someone in the camp finding him with his brains blown out either, it seemed unfair on them, as did hanging himself, but now he regretted it dearly, that he couldn’t afford himself some selfishness. 

Now he was on bed-rest wasting everyone's time and resources because he couldn’t off himself properly. What a goddamn idiot he was. 

“We should be able to get rid of the bandages soon,” Swanson says, interrupting his thoughts. “It would help them heal, letting the wounds breathe a little. In a couple days we should be able to remove the stitches too.” 

“Sure,” he mutters. “When will I be able to do some work with my arms again you reckon?”   


Swanson gives him an incredulous look. “Mr. Morgan, no one expects you to-” 

“I know, I know,” he interrupts. “I would feel better about myself, though, if I could help around at camp again soon.” 

Silence falls. Arthur could, if he strained himself, hear people whisper around the campfire outside. The voices too low, though, for him to be able to make out what they were saying. It had been like that ever since he woke up after that night, the silence unfamiliar to him. Usually he would hear yelling by this time of hour, it was evening after all, mood used to be good around that time of day with Pearson’s stew filling their stomachs and most people drinking whiskey to round of the day. 

Another thing making him feel even more like shit, that his family couldn’t even allow themselves to relax. All because of him. 

Swanson breaks the silence. 

“You’ve always been kind to me, Mr. Morgan, even the times when I haven’t deserved it. I owe Dutch my life, and I owe you too.”   
  
“You don’t owe me nothin’.” 

  
Swanson takes a deep breath. 

“I remember once, Mr. Morgan, once you told me that you think I may be strong enough to overcome my vices one day. It meant something to me, hearing it from you.”, Swanson says, “You are too. Strong, I mean.” 

“I don’t know about that, Reverend,” he mumbles. 

“I do,” Swanson insists. “I do.” 

“Arthur?” a new voice joins the fold, and relief shoots through him. “Oh, hello Reverend,” Abigail says when she spots Swanson. Little Jack stands almost behind her, strangely shy. “Hope I ain’t interrupting something.”   
  
“It’s alright, Abigail,” Swanson says. “I was just done here.” 

He leaves swiftly, and Abigail steps further into the tent with Jack in tow. “You are looking better,” she says. 

Arthur knows he looks like shit. He had managed to catch his reflection once in the mirror when Swanson was cleaning his arms. He was pale, circles underneath his eyes even though he had slept more the past days than he think he’d ever done in his life, not to mention gaunt as the morphine rarely let him keep food down. 

“Thanks,” he says. “I feel well enough.” 

“I heard about John, he can be such a fool,” she sighs. “Me and Hosea have given that man a piece of our mind, I can promise you that.” 

It surprises him, it really does, Abigail should be furious with him for scaring Jack. If there is something she’d agree with John with, Arthur thought it would be this.   
Perhaps he doesn’t know her as well as he thinks. 

“I deserved it,” he responds, and when Abigail looks like she wants to argue he quickly adds, “Was that the reason you’re here, apologizing for his sake?” 

“The boy wanted to give you something,” Abigail says. “Isn’t that right, Jack?”   
  
Jack nods, taking a tentative step forwards, he’s holding a piece of paper against his chest. It makes his heart clench, seeing how skittish Jack is and how he glances at Arthur's bandaged arms, the ones he tried to hide under his blanket as soon as he saw them come in. He really messed things up this time.   
  
“Whatcha got there, Jack?” he asks. 

“A drawing,” Jack says shyly. “It’s for you, Uncle Arthur.”   
“A drawing?” 

  
Jack nods again and holds out it. Arthur grabs it, fumbles a bit when he grasps it, his fingers feeling numb. Jack looks on with anticipation as he takes the drawing in. 

And for the first time since what feels like forever, he can feel a smile grow on his face, a real smile. He recognizes the hat that the stick figure is wearing, the hat everyone seemed to dislike and so he therefore tried to wear as often as possible. Him, surrounded by large, smiling animals and a field of flowers. “Oh, would you look at that,” he says, “This is really good, Jack, you are turning into quite the artist.”   
  
Jack beams at him. 

“It’s you! And the cougar, and that’s a wolf!” Jack explains, all shyness gone. “Do you like it?” 

“I love it,” Arthur responds. “Thank you, Jack. You are a good kid.” 

“Come on now, Jack,” Abigail says, grabbing the boy's hand. “You should let Uncle Arthur rest.” 

“I am gonna make more drawings for you,” Jack says, almost stumbling as Abigail drags him away. “I promise!” 

Arthur places the drawing on the table next to him but not before looking at in one more time, allows himself to feel happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so this chapter was a tough one to write, i think its hard to write from arthurs perspective for some reason. i hope you all like it! next one will feature dutch and i hope i'll get it out tomorrow. also can you tell that i love swanson? really stuck on that man for some reason


	3. Chapter 3

The bandages come off just a day later, and the stitches just a few days after that. He’s not prepared for what’s underneath. Two long gashes now decorate his arms, still red and irritated and jutting out in hideous way, he can almost see the contours of the scarring even when they are covered with the thin cotton of his union suit. He doesn’t think he ever will be able to roll up his sleeves again like he always did when the heat got too unbearable, and it’s strange how that thought hurts him so much. They will get less ugly with time, Swanson had told him that much just in kinder words, the redness would disappear but the skin would always be raised there. 

It’s just what he deserves, he figures. For breaking Hosea’s heart, for making Dutch worry, for moping around in his tent while the others had to work twice as hard. 

He’s been off the morphine for two days, and he can understand Swanson more than ever. It had dulled some of his senses but now everything is creeping back at him, gnawing at his very soul. 

He won’t ever get used to  it, he thinks. The pitying stares, the watchful eyes every time he ventured too near the shore, as if he would drown himself, the mere thought of it was absolutely ridiculous. It’s  suffocating, their worrying, absolutely suffocating. 

With Bill off to Micah’s camp working on a peace offering for Dutch, with Sean, Hosea and John working on some job for the Braithwaite's and Charles off hunting with Lenny on less hostile grounds than the fuckin’ south, it meant that the camp was still somewhat quiet.

It also meant that he, by contrast, felt even more worthless in his inactivity. 

Everything reaches  it’s boiling point when he once again sees the others ride off for the day.

He can’t stay still any longer. 

\--

“I need my guns,” Arthur says. “I’m  goin ’ out on the Braithwaite job.” If he’s quick he would be able to catch up with  Hosea, god knows he needs set things right with that man.

Dutch is sitting on his bed as usual, he’s reading that Evelyn Miller book of his as always and barely meets  Arthur’s gaze.

“Don’t be absurd, Arthur.” Dutch scoffs and turns a page. 

“ Stitchin ’ has healed up fine, I can use my arms again.” he responds. “Come on Dutch, you really expect me to just be content with sitting around here all day, when there is  work that needs to be done?”

“I said no. See if Grimshaw needs any help cleaning this place up if you want something to do, but you are not going off on some job, not today.”

He can tell Dutch is getting annoyed judging by his dismissive tone and the way the clutches the sides of the book. Still, Arthur feels the need to push him, because the days of restlessness had gotten him worked up as well. 

He’s itching for a fight, for anything really to spend energy on, hates to be stuck in camp, alone with his thoughts and everyone watching him like they’re afraid that he’s going to snap, like they think he’s unhinged. He needs to leave, the atmosphere of the camp suffocating him. For so long he had been able to come and go as he please, the only one in camp with that freedom apart from Trelawny, and without it he didn’t know what to do. It was his only distraction, the thing that would help him keep himself in line.    


“When can I leave then?” he therefore asks. He  _ needs  _ to do something , whether it’s stealing moonshine, shooting up a town or just saving an idiot photographer from getting eaten by wild beasts. 

“You are not leaving this camp-” Dutch says and snaps his book shut, “until I can trust that you won’t do anything foolish as soon as we turn our backs.”   
  
He can feel his throat dry up. “You don’t trust me?” It is just what he expected, and yet it hurts, it’s feels like a stab wound, a knife twisting his guts. “I make _one_ mistake and you no longer trust me.”   
  
“Mistake?” Dutch scoffs. “Is that what you are calling slitting your wrists? A mistake?”

“I’ve been loyal to you for twenty goddamn years, and you have the guts to say that you don’t trust me? That’s real fuckin’ rich of you, Dutch, real fuckin’ rich.”

“I trust you with my life, I don’t, however, trust you with yours. You are not leaving, and that is final. Don’t argue with me on this, son.” Dutch gives him a glare that says ‘end of discussion’, but days of restlessness and humiliation finally reaches its boil and it turns into pure anger. 

He explodes. 

“Why the hell did you keep me alive then, huh?” Arthur snarls. “What use am I to you, what use am I for this gang if you don’t let me fight? You don’t even let me hunt,  y’all hover over me here like I’m some goddamn invalid!  _ What use am I to you?! _ ”

“You think we care about you bringing in  money? After all of this?” Dutch growls back, redness evident on his face. “You tried to _ kill yourself _ Arthur, money is the least of my worries right now!”

“And I’d be better off dead than  wastin ’ away here being a useless sack of shit.” 

Dutch face falls. “You can’t truly believe that.” It sounds like a plea. 

Arthur doesn’t respond, and that is all the confirmation Dutch needs. 

“Oh, son,” Dutch says with a softness that makes his heart ache, and his self-hatred reaches new heights when he sees the heartbroken look on Dutch’s face. Why couldn't just have _fucking shot himself_ and saved them all from the misery that failure brings? “The only way for you to be useful to me is to be alive, son, alive and by my side. Do you think so little of me, of Hosea? Do you think we took you in because we wanted a soldier? We took you in because we from the moment we saw you cared about you. Is that so hard to believe? Have we mistreated you so bad?”

“This  ain’t about you, nor Hosea.” 

It really isn’t. They had been kind to him, always kinder than a vicious man like him deserved. The wasted so many years in trying to raise a broken and ugly feller like him. This had nothing to do with them at all.   


Some people were just born wrong, and just as he had inherited his father's penchant for violence, perhaps he had inherited his sadness too.

“Then what is it this all about?” Dutch tries. “Mary? Eliza? What happened, what’s the reason behind all of this? Just talk to me, son, tell me how we can fix this.” 

“There isn’t one.” he spits out. “There was no deeper reason behind it, not a single one. I was just tired, Dutch.” His voice cracks, he chokes down a sob. “I’m just so goddamn  _ tired _ .” 

When he feels Dutch’s arms around him, he breaks down into tears. He's crying his heart out, and its utterly embarrassing, he fights to keep the sobs down, to be as quiet as possible because he’d already made a fool of himself enough, but he can’t stop the tears, he feels shame but he feels  _ relief _ . He had fought for so long to keep going, to be the man of action the gang needed but here in Dutch’s arms he can finally allow himself to be anything but strong. Over twenty years old he’d carried everything inside of him, and now it all flows out of it, the years and years of melancholia, of loneliness and the feeling of being trapped in his own skin. It all comes out. 

“You are my family, Arthur,” Dutch says. His voice quivers. “We may not share the same blood, but you, Hosea, John, you are more in my veins than any other family I have had. I don’t- I don’t know what I would do without you by my side.”

Dutch pets the back of his head, the ringed fingers getting caught in a tangle. “You will get through this, son. I know you will.”

He sounds so  _ sure,  _ so  _ sincere  _ that Arthur almost believes him. Perhaps he will, someday. 

For now, he lets Dutch’s faith carry them both. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for reading this!  
> not super happy with how it turned out so i am probably gonna add a part three to this series, but i hope you all enjoyed this final chapter of part 2! if you find any wrongs please let me know, english isnt my first language so there is bound to be some errors there.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry this is not beta-read
> 
> for those who wanted a continuation of my other fic, hope it doesnt ruin anything. sorry for making john mean, he doesnt know how to express worry in a nice way :(


End file.
